


You Should Have Ran

by Delirious21



Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23287201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delirious21/pseuds/Delirious21
Summary: Megatron's final stand against the Autobots was less glorious than he'd expected. The Elite Guard took control of Optimus Prime's mission and slaughtered as many Decepticons as they could. Megatron survived, but sometimes he wishes he hadn't. Optimus Prime, on the other hand, wishes that peace was more than a fable or a figment of his imagination.Transformers Animated AU, where the ending changes and a bunch of messed up shit happens.
Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime
Comments: 42
Kudos: 116





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Will be switching back and forth between Optimus Prime's perspective and Megatron's. Large gaps will indicate such.

It had been one of their most glorious battles yet. Or, it would have been if half of his army was still alive. Megatron basked in the ache of his limbs and the shriek of small organics. The city buildings were coming down, dragging the sky with them, and it was beautiful. Megatron opened his arms to the crumbling steel, embracing the impact, the crushing weight. He was prepared for this to be his end. It was because of Lugnut that the buildings were falling, but Megatron took pride in the destruction. He wanted to die as he lived, hidden beneath the structures of society. He imagined these Earth buildings as Cybertronian and his spark roared. 

Moments before the pure collapse, Megatron glimpsed a flash of blue and red and his elation disintegrated. Later, he would blame the sudden lack of peace for his survival. 

Fuming with spite and life, Megatron searched for Optimus Prime in the rubble. The small Bot was trapped under a metal beam and his legs were crushed beneath mounds of cement. He had to be dead. Yet Megatron checked. The energon on his neck was warm, and his spark flickered, but it was alive. He was alive. Damn Autobot. He couldn’t have just let Megatron go, could he? He couldn’t let him get away without justice being served. For a moment, Megatron considered leaving the Autobot where he lay. But the few surviving Decepticons had evacuated before the fall. Only this mech, this small, bleeding, broken mech had tried to reach him, save him. 

It didn’t take much for Megatron to free the Prime from the rubble. He cradled the smaller mech in his arms, not quite sure what he was doing, and transformed. Although he was damaged, it wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t fly, and right then he needed to get as far away from the world as possible. At least the part of the world where the Autobots were. It would make more sense to drop the young Prime off at one of their outposts and flee, but Megatron’s spark twisted at the thought. So why didn’t he just leave him there in the first place? Maybe it was the energon splattering Optimus’ frame, or his slack features, or the possibility of death because of anything other than Megatron’s hands. Or maybe it was loneliness, or a thirst for revenge, since his allies were dead because of this mech’s people.

He landed at an old Decepticon storage unit, one that had been untouched for decades. It’d been forgotten by the mass of the decepticon leaders, but Megatron kept it in the back of his mind in case of an emergency. And here he was, unlocking the doors while he carried a dying Autobot in his arms, searching for medical equipment, kicking up dust, desperate. The Prime groaned and his face contorted in agony. His energon covered them both, soaking into seams and congealing on both red and silver armor. Megatron found the medical supplies in the back corner of the storage unit and sighed. He set Optimus down against a shelf and pulled down a box. He dug through it and the next three until he found clean rags and antibiotic cleaner. He worked quickly, relying on muscle memory from his days in the Pit, and roughly patched the Prime up as he flashed in and out of consciousness. He bled through his bandages before Megatron could finish his rough welding and patching, forcing him to alternate between cleaning and welding. 

Optimus didn’t wake up until the third day. Megatron was sleeping for the first time since they arrived at the storage unit, arms crossed, chin tucked against his chest, frown etched into his faceplates. Optimus couldn’t move without crying out in unexpected agony, and the broken sound woke the warlord. They stared at each other for a moment, Optimus struggling to get his bearings, and Megatron’s entire frame tensing. 

“Don’t move,” Megatron finally rumbled. He didn’t move either.

“Wh—” Optimus grit his dentae, but everything hurt. He couldn’t even get a word out without darkness spotting his vision and his helm throbbing. Panic welled in him. Alone with Megatron, somewhere dark, or not dark, but muggy and dimly lit. Hungry. Broken. Vulnerable. His comm attempts were only fetching static. His breath hitched and his lungs felt like they were on fire. Coolant welled in his optics, an involuntary reaction to the pain, he told himself. 

“You should have left me,” Megatron said. He closed his optics again and leaned his helm back against a shelf. “Now look at the mess you’ve made.”

His mess? His ventilations hitched again and he grunted with pain when he tried to sit up. His battle mask was broken, probably the only thing that kept his jaw from shattering, and the walls were closing in, or not the walls, the shelves. The shelves and the walls and Megatron. He hadn’t moved, but he was closer, pressing over Optimus, working his digits into the vulnerable seams of his chest, ripping into his spark, and he couldn’t breathe. Not that he needed to, but he did. He couldn’t think straight, mind consumed with revolt and disaster and the war and then Elita-1 was there, beautiful face in the ashes, dipping in and out of the shelves, beckoning him, and Sentinel and the Council were there too, stripping him of his badges, mocking him, kicking him until his ribs were broken, his optics bruised, his arms dangling like Elita’s after the explosion, and energon— why was there so much energon on the floor and on the boxes and on him and on Elita— and he was screaming, screaming at the pain and because of the pain, because it hurt so much to scream but he needed it. 

Megatron knelt next to him, arm extended, a sword, or a fusion cannon, aimed at his chest. But it wasn’t, it was food. Energon. Optimus choked on his own energon, the product of all his screaming and thrashing, and he couldn’t hold himself up any more and he collapsed, living corpse molding to the floor. 

Huge hands forced him to sit up again. He sobbed at the pain, at Elita, at the hands that had no right being so gentle, and coughed up blood. Megatron disappeared, and so did the food and he was floating again, but not floating, sinking, and Primus held him down, let him drown. And all of Cybertron was there, and they smiled as he died.

The small, frantic Prime lost consciousness and slumped sideways on the floor. Megatron wanted to clean him, hated looking at all the energon, but he wouldn’t stoop so low. But the hours passed and the Prime didn’t wake up, and Megatron paced the storage unit, pacing and looking. Looking for nothing, or just an answer. An answer to what the hell he was doing. He knew what he was doing; what no one had ever done for him. Saved him from the hells of the underground pits, the fighting rings, everything. From everything. He paced the halls and eventually returned to the Prime, propped him up, and paced away again. He kept energon by Optimus in case he woke up, in case he was lucid, and he caved. Optimus was fighting himself, he could see it in the feebly clenched fists and the twisted lips, the furrowed brow. Megatron knew the feeling, knew it too damn well. The nightmares, the terror consuming sleep, and he wondered what horrors this small, young Autobot had witnessed that left him like this. And, for a moment, he felt weary and mourned a Cybertron where this mechling didn’t have to fight, didn’t have to sacrifice himself for the most meager approval of a council of old, self-righteous piles of rust. 

Megatron’s handiwork was crude, but muscle memory took over and before he knew it, he was patching the Prime like he’d patched many a fellow warrior-class mechs. He was so small, this bot, but there was no denying that he was a warrior. More than a foot-soldier, because even his foot-soldiers abandoned him. But Optimus, this petite looking thing, risked death to save Megatron from the destruction  _ he  _ caused. 

The mech twitched again and his optics cycled on. He whipped his helm around, struggling to come to his senses and engulfed by terror. “Where am I?” he hissed. He grimaced and bent forward from the pain, and Megatron kept a steady servo on his shoulder to hold him up. 

“Storage unit,” he rumbled. But that wasn’t enough, or it didn’t feel like enough, and he added, “I didn’t know what else to do.” It wasn’t a lie, but it felt like cotton coming from his mouth. 

Optimus’ optics rolled back in his helm when a shiver racked his frame. He groaned and panted, mouth hanging open. “W-why?”

Megatron stared into the bot’s optics, searching or threatening, he didn’t know. Why was it that this Autobot’s weakness made his spark ache, when once he would have reveled in watching it extinguish? Maybe it was because he didn’t fight to defend the Council. Maybe it was because his furious blue optics fueled passion in any he glanced at. Megatron sighed, berating the strange fondness tugging at his spark. 

Finally, he stood and whispered, “Rest, young Prime.”


	2. Chapter 2

When Optimus jolted awake, ripped from his dream and Elita’s sweet touch, he screamed. Physical pain, emotional anguish, primal terror: Who knows why he did it. Megatron glared at him from where he sat against a particularly sturdy shelf but he was still in too much pain to care. His nerves were set on fire from the inside, like boiling oil had been injected straight into his veins. He writhed from the sensation, but moving only made it worse and in the back of his head he could hear Sentinel Prime berate him, call him weak. Stubborn, and alight with weak fury, Optimus clenched his jaw against the pain. His helm thunked back against the shelf he was propped up against, and he stared at the ceiling. If Megatron was telling the truth, and they were in a Decepticon storage unit, it had been abandoned for quite some time. Cracks splintered the ceiling, and dust and insects reigned over the cramped space. Optimus’ spark ached when he noticed the intricate weavings of spiders in the corner. He knew days had passed, but it felt like hours since he watched the Elite Guard maul Blackarachnia down with gunfire. 

The lights barely worked, only offering a glimmer of brightness. And it was silent, so horribly silent, and Megatron sat only twenty feet away from him. That was probably the most disconcerting part of it all. Or maybe that his wounds were patched, and the only one around was the warframe. Optimus’ tanks twisted when he thought about those massive grey servos on him, covered in his energon, repairing him, maybe, or making things worse. It was Megatron’s fault they were here in the first place. If he’d just retreated when the buildings started coming down, Optimus wouldn’t’ve felt the irrepressible urge to pull him towards safety and justice. Of course, his belief in justice was a wane thing anymore. 

Megatron shifted, just barely moving his leg, and Optimus watched him suspiciously. The giant mech leaned over to push a cube of energon closer to the Prime. For a minute, Optimus just stared at the cube, and a hunger he never experienced before engulfed him. He fought through any and all pain to grab that cube and lift it to his lips. His servos shook and he spilled energon down his chassis, but he ignored the mess and chugged what he could. Immediately, his tanks revolted and he flopped over and purged onto the floor. 

Megatron got up then, and Optimus was too far gone to protest when he was picked up under the arms and moved to a new spot so he wasn’t sitting in his own sick. For a moment, he appreciated the consideration, but he lost consciousness before he could doubt Megatron’s intentions. 

Megatron didn’t bother cleaning up the Prime’s new mess: he wasn’t planning on staying much longer. He’d already packed some energon and medical supplies before the Autobot woke up. Now the only issue was transporting him. Megatron paced while he debated his options. It was impossible to leave and not come into contact with the enemy, but he was already with the enemy, even if Optimus felt less like an enemy and more like a nuisance. But the Prime needed proper medical attention, and for some reason he couldn’t name, Megatron needed the Prime to be safe. Maybe it was selfish, or maybe, just maybe, he saw his younger self in Optimus and wanted to protect what he’d lost centuries ago. 

It felt strange, carrying the Prime’s limp frame like you would a sparkling or a new conjunx endura, but Megatron pushed that to the back of his mind. He balanced Optimus against his chest and, with his free servo, entered the code to unlock the main door to the outside world. Hot dessert air blasted him in the face and he snarled at the planet’s damned sun. Of course it didn’t change anything. 

Megatron heaved under the sudden, irrepressible ache of his own injuries and the weight of his plan. Or, rather, his lack of plan. He didn’t have the energy to walk far, so he carefully sat Optimus down against a sand dune and plopped down twenty or so feet away from him. Megatron tried not to think. He tried not to think about the lead in his veins or the exhaustion numbing his legs and arms. Tried not to think about when the Autobots would come for their little Prime. He grumbled to himself and leaned back, shuttering his optics to the harsh rays of the sun. 

He would run if he could; if he knew that there was something to run to. But his army, his armada, were either dead or in Autobot hands. Or traitors. And what good would it do to return to Starscream, who was no doubt licking his wounds and preening his delicate wings. There were his injuries to take into consideration, too. Even a warbuild doesn’t take a city over the head without breaking. Whereas Optimus’ injuries were external, Megatron could feel his internal workings grind and clench and struggle with their most basic functions. Walking was a challenge, and he was certain at least one thigh was liquid metal and his collar was no better. Yet his spark and brain module attained physical trauma, but their functioning was the only reason Megatron hadn’t died. He cursed his build and the extra armor. 

He opened his optics to the familiar whir of a spacebridge. The portal opened in an electrified puddle of greens and blues and out marched Ultra Magnus, flanked by his second-in-command and a whole fleet of Elite Guardsmen. Preparing for the worst, Megatron thought. He snorted to himself and stood, brushing off his backside and gearing for the fight of his life and freedom, neither of which he felt like fighting for. 

Optimus woke to the clash of metal against metal and a medic shining a light in his optics. He didn’t know who it was, some young mech no bigger than Bumblebee, and he was asking something about walking. Optimus stared over the medic’s shoulder, where Ultra Magnus was dropping the Magnus hammer down on a kneeling and bleeding Megatron. Guardsmen swarmed and any trace of the warlord was lost in the mass. 

The medic snapped in front of Optimus. “Zzz zer me?” His head throbbed with an ungodly migraine. He shook his helm, startled to hear something rattle when he moved, and the medic seized him by the shoulders. “Can you hear me?”

Optimus dropped his chin against his collar, as much he could manage of a nod. Behind the medic, Megatron was being chained and cuffed and dragged, half-dead, through the spacebridge. Optimus closed his optics but it wasn’t relief flooding him, it was something else. Something roiling and violent. 

The medic said something and jammed a needle into his thigh, and even as the drug started to take hold, Optimus wanted only to drive his fist through anything or  _ anyone _ . Just as his digits curled into a fist, he passed out. 


	3. Chapter 3

When he woke up, it was Ratchet at his bedside, tending his wounds. Optimus blinked and blinked again, groggy from pain killers and booster shots. He wanted to retreat back into his drugged sleep, the utter darkness of it was soothing and it masked the nightmares. Awake, he could hear Elita’s screams ringing in his audials and it was all he could do not to scream back. And now, in the corners of his mind, Blackarachnia would eternally weave her silky webs. At least she hadn’t screamed. Couldn’t, with her helm targeted first.

Optimus shut his optics and feebly curled his fist in the sheets covering him. He wanted to pull them over his helm or stuff balls of them into his audials; smother out the noise. Smother the anguish. When he breathed, it was a painful, wheezing shudder and Ratchet looked up from replacing the bandages on his leg. Optimus felt his gaze on him and dutifully kept his optics shut. He imagined the look, too soft, too pitying, and he didn’t want to see it. 

“Kid,” Ratchet muttered, “just rest. It’ll be days ‘til I can get you functional enough to move about, so take the time and recharge.”

Optimus didn’t have the strength to tell him he didn’t want to. Or even if he wanted to sleep, there was this pressure on his optics, like a blinding light he couldn’t see. And, as drugged out as he was, he could still feel the pain in his limbs creeping closer and closer to his spark. He wanted to scream but his jaw was wired shut. Targeted first. 

Too bad, Sentinel had said.

Too bad. 

Monitors out of sight beeped and blipped and Optimus opened his optics. He couldn’t feel his spark pounding in its case, or the cold sweat or how his servos shook, but his mind raced. Fury, maybe: fear, more likely. 

Ratchet rushed to the monitors, somewhere above Optimus, and called for help. 

Fear when Elita’s screaming got louder. Fear for when the metal panels of the wall shifted away to reveal a study room, just like in the Academy, and Sentinel stalked up and down the lines of desks. His helm was bowed and his back hunched, his arms hanging limp and nearly touching the ground. 

From the fog surrounding the room, someone called,  _ “Can you hear me?” _

Sentinel twitched and lifted his helm, dead optics trained on Optimus and mouth agape and drooling, or was that someone’s energon? He lunged, spider arms outstretched and pincers clacking, and Optimus threw his helm back just to avoid watching. 

As the grotesque Sentinel ripped Optimus to pieces, he panted,“Should have been you.”

_ “Is he coming out of it?” _

“You. You. You.”

Optimus wished he could feel what Sentinel was doing. He wished, as tears stung his optics, that Elita was alive. He wished for forgiveness. 

The Prime with the absurd chin landed another kick, this time to the back of the helm. Megatron reared up, or tried to, but another guard yanked the chain around his neck and he was back to the floor. It was degrading, being drugged and beaten within an inch of his life and then getting his face pressed to the filthy, moldy drain of the decontamination room. He grit his dentae and swiped at the legs of the chain-holder, but every mech in a twenty foot radius came at him with electric rods. They jammed the rods into open wounds and Megatron roared as he collapsed, arcs of electricity jumping off his frame as his energon dripped down the drain. 

He groaned as he rolled onto his side. He eyeballed Chin Prime and smirked at his shaking servos and wild grin. “Do you get off on this as much as I do, little Autobot?” He laughed off the rewarding shocks. 

“Get him up,” Chin barked.

A couple of his underlies hoisted Megatron up and pinned him to the wall while the water and decontaminating foam were prepared. He growled into the tile.

“He’s not ready for visitors.”

Optimus rolled his helm on the pillow, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever Ratchet was barring from the room. He groaned, his only attempt at speaking so far, and glared at Ratchet’s back when he wasn’t heard. He’d woken up when someone knocked on the door, and it was either a miracle or more drugs, because he couldn’t hear Elita. 

“I only want to offer comfort.” The voice was familiar, but Optimus got tired of craning his neck real fast and flopped back onto his pillow. That caught both mech’s attention and Optimus closed his optics to avoid theirs. 

“Can he speak?”

“No,” Ratchet said. “His jaw needs more time to heal.”

“Why would he—”

“I don’t know and it’s not my place to answer for him.” He paused. “Give it a few days.”

“Give it a few days,” Chin said as he paraded outside Megatron’s cell. “You’ll start to enjoy yourself.” He stopped to lean closer to the bars and grin. “I know I will.”

They gagged him. Couldn’t have him talking and convincing any dumb mech to throw a mutiny. Megatron worked the gag in his mouth, grinding his dentae against it and running his glossa along the jagged bit while refusing to lose eye contact with Chin. He chuckled to himself when the Prime faltered in his pompous prattle. 

“On second thought,” he cleared his throat, “You probably won’t be here long.”

Megatron inclined his helm to glare out from under his pinched brows. It was an effort to move at all, let alone hold his head up, but the stubborn rage in him refused to be taken quietly, or at least peacefully. This would be no different, no worse, than the underground Pits and the fighting rings that marred his younger life. Even without followers, he would maintain face. Even with his dislocated shoulder, the shattered digits, the gaping wounds, and the broken bones. He would not die a belittled mech, not in his own body and not while he had control of his mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Nights were getting bleak again; Ratchet gave him less drugs as the days passed, and the nightmares returned. Optimus, only half-conscious, tried to kick the sheet off him, but someone had tied it down and he couldn’t reach the knots. He wiped his cheek against his damp pillow and closed his optics. Ratchet had promised that, in the morning, they would begin basic physical therapy, and Optimus focused on that. He tried not to let his mind twist his thoughts and mutilate his rest.

The one thing he could think of without crumbling was Megatron’s trial. Ultra Magnus had visited the day before and relayed as much information as he could. Megatron was given a fair trial and was still convicted and sentenced to death. Optimus still couldn’t speak, couldn’t ask who his defendant was, or when the sentence would be enacted. He was starting to believe that it was better not to speak, though. If he couldn’t ask questions, he couldn’t answer them either. 

A light in the hall turned on, and Optimus stared at the sliver of light seeping under his door. He hoped it was Ratchet coming to dose him up again, but the light turned off not five minutes later and he was left in the dark. Even his optics were too dim to see by. 

Megatron’s optic growled when the brig light was turned on, the harsh crackle of artificial lights ringing in his audials. He kept his helm bowed against his chest instead of wasting the effort to lift it. 

“Lean forward,” someone hissed. 

He didn’t move. 

“Fine.”

Megatron jolted when the bars of his cell were clacked against, and he squinted up at the red and white medic he used to see by Optimus Prime’s side. The old grump held a syringe in one servo and a keycard in the other. For a moment, Megatron thought his time was up already, but when the medic squatted in front of him, he smelled like the Prime. He tugged at his bounds, frustrated that he even recognized the small mech’s scent, and his wrists, ankles, neck, and waist chafed against their chains. 

“Do you want this?” The medic held up the syringe and tapped the glass cylinder of it against his knuckle. He wouldn’t look Megatron in the optic. “Pain suppressant.”

He debated biting down on his gag and shaking his helm; he would not accept mercy from his soon-to-be-killers. Yet. . . 

The red and white Bot quickly became impatient and snarled, “I know what they’ve done. No one deserves that.” He paused. His voice was nothing but a whisper when he spoke again. “Optimus would want you to have it. His condition is improving, by the way.”

Megatron sighed —really just a puff of hot air against the gag— and let his helm fall again. He struggled to lean back on his haunches as he wondered what the feeling simmering beneath his constant fatigue was. What was it about the Prime that made him want to slump against the wall and close his optics and pretend they were back in that storage unit? He’d been mulling this over for days. It took his mind off his empty tank and the abuse. Besides, he had nothing else to think about. His future was well and decided, his allies were all dead or scattered and he had no way of contacting them: All he had was Optimus Prime. 

He nodded and accepted the injection. 

“Come on, Optimus, just a few more steps.”

Optimus glared across the room at Ratchet as he staggered towards him. He clutched desperately to Ambulon’s arm and shuffled his pedes while fighting for balance. It was pitiful, really, but Optimus knew he could be worse off. He could be dead. . .

“Get that leg under you,” Ratchet said. He took notes on Optimus’ stature and progress. Considering that it’d only been a week since Optimus was picked up, he was recovering faster than expected and exceptionally well. 

But he was starting to ask questions. Optimus knew something was wrong with the way Ultra Magnus explained Megatron’s trial, and now that his jaw was free, he voiced it. He was careful, of course, and only spoke to Ratchet about it. He knew all too well how words and questions could be twisted and misunderstood. The last thing he needed was to get strung up in the brig for treason or something else absurd. 

Ambulon led Optimus back to the medical berth and left him and Ratchet to attend to other patients. The two waited for the door to be locked before saying anything, and then, only in hushed voices. 

“You have to know something else about the trial,” Optimus pressed. It hurt to speak, but he couldn’t stand being quiet any longer. 

Ratchet dropped gracelessly into a bedside chair. He crossed his arms and huffed, “You’ll be out of here in a day or two. Have to use a cane for the first week, but you’ll be moving around on your own.”

Optimus didn’t know if he was in control when his fists balled in the bedsheets. “Ratchet.” His tanks rolled and he bit back bile.

Cyan optics met his and Ratchet sighed. “There wasn’t a trial. Not one like you’re thinking.” He rubbed a servo over his helm. “The Council decided, by majority vote, that Megatron will be disposed of at the end of the day tomorrow.”

“What? They can’t do that!” Optimus swung his legs over the berth, intent on marching out there and confronting the Council. Ratchet’s exhausted optics stopped him. “Foregoing the fair trial with representation skews this entire situation, Ratchet,” he said, sinking back into the berth. “If Megatron is killed without hesitation rather than brought to justice, that makes us no better than him. Everyone should get a second chance; the trial.”

“You assume we were  _ ever  _ better than Megatron,” Ratchet muttered. “The Council has always been corrupt, Optimus. You are still young, you haven’t interacted with them enough to understand. You haven’t been directly affected by many of their rulings.”

“I need to see him.”

“No one will approve.”

Optimus clenched his jaw, ignoring the white flash behind his optics. “I’ll write it off as bragging or spewing about justice.”

Ratchet watched him for a while, and it was hard not to squirm under his gaze. “Go tomorrow.” Something shifted in his gaze and he stood and headed for the door. “Whatever you do, know that your team has your back.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sexual Assault/Rape Warning for this chapter. It isn't explicitly detailed.*

Elita straddled Optimus, her energon soaking them both, and her mangled digits closed around his throat. He didn’t need the breath, but it was precious to him, and he thrashed against her hold, but it was no use. Sentinel and Ultra Magnus held down his arms and legs while he screamed. He screamed silently for help, so quiet he couldn’t hear himself. Elita bent forward, dripping spark singing his chassis, and he bucked but there were servos on his hips, scraping at his panel. 

His spark lurched and his mouth opened, opened only to be filled with Elita’s spilt energon. The energon he spilled. He spilled it, cut it from her veins and slicked his conscience with it. His conscience and his servos. How much could one femme bleed?

Servos shook him awake, or not awake, but open. Optics and chest open but blind. He couldn’t see them, but he felt the walls press in, close in, force him into a cube, misshapen and ugly. Broken frame dripping rich blue energon. Blood and fuel. How do you tell the difference? Optimus’ body sat itself upright, as if it didn’t need his mind to function. 

Something cold and hard hit his face and he rolled to avoid more of the icy sting, and he was falling. Falling for so long, so, so long, tangled in a mess of seared wires and blown circuits, and when he hit the ground it was the floor and he was back in the medbay, sprawled on the floor, tangled in monitor wires and bleeding. His mouth tasted of energon and he spat gobs of it onto the cold linoleum.

He couldn’t wait. 

Megatron licked the energon out the corner of his mouth and shot a grin back to Chin. The normal guards had been replaced while he was unconscious, and now there were electrical conductors attached to his metal bindings. Chin (Megatron since learned his name was Sentinel, but he refused to acknowledge it) held the controller for the charges. The fragger had removed Megatron’s gag, only to hear him groan and scream when the electricity triggered sensory overdrive or fried a new cluster of neural nodes. 

“Too high for you?” Chin sneered and activated another pulse. 

Megatron gnashed his dentae together as his frame struggled with excess energy. He was on all fours and twitching with aftershocks. He was exhausted and his wounds from the last beating had yet to heal, let alone the ones from his final stand against the Autobots. He thought about Optimus Prime and forced himself to stand and lean against the back wall of his cell. 

He remembered fighting the blue and red Prime and how lithe he was, bouncing around the battlefield, small and quick but no less powerful than Megatron on his best days. For a second, he thought he saw the little Bot coming down the hall, but Chin turned and blocked the apparition from sight. 

Optimus’ servo shook the cane as he walked. The faster he tried to move, the worse he shook, but when he caught sight of Megatron in his cell, he couldn’t stop. He shuffled down the hall until Sentinel stopped him. 

“Optimus, buddy, what are you doing out of medbay?” Sentinel clapped a servo on his shoulder, sending him to the floor. “Oh, my bad.” He offered a servo. “Here. Guess you’re weaker than usual, huh.” He hooked an arm around Optimus to help hold him up. 

The two guards in the brig stared but Optimus ignored them; he was too busy trying to figure out what was going on before he arrived. His mind was cloudier than his optics, but he knew that grey mass and he knew what he heard wasn’t a harmless interaction. Someone was hurt and it wasn’t Sentinel.

Sentinel started to lead him back down the hall but he paused and called to the guards. “Hey, you guys mind taking him back to the medbay?”

The two shared a glance, a snicker, and nodded. They all but dragged Optimus away, but not towards the medbay. Optimus didn’t realize where they were until he was being tossed into a dark, monitor filled room and the door was slammed behind him. Brig surveillance. Sentinel must have been on duty, Optimus thought. All he knew, besides that, was that he needed to get to Megatron. He couldn’t explain it, not well, at least; the way his spark clung to faint notions of compassion and justice, and how this, all of this, ate away at those little hopes, and how Megatron was, oddly enough, now included in those hopes. 

It was late, but Optimus called Ratchet anyway. He’d said. . .

“I’m coming,” Ratchet rasped as soon as he picked up. “What’s wrong?”

Optimus tried the door but it was locked from the outside. “I’m in the brig security booth. They locked me in.”

“We’re coming,” Ratchet said, voice lowered. “Stay on the line.”

Optimus rammed the door, but he was still too weak and he returned to the console with a throbbing shoulder and jarred legs. Two monitors showed the live feeds from Megatron’s cell block, where five Elite Guardsmen were gathered now. Optimus could do nothing but watch from his post in the security booth as they opened the cell. He watched with horror as Megatron spat energon at his attackers and crouched as low as his restraints allowed, ready for the first lunge. Whoever it was aimed for the knees right as the electric charge on Megatron’s restraints went off. Optimus didn’t need audio to hear the grating of dentae, the searing wires, and the fritzing synapses. The charge was too high. Too high, and Megatron buckled. The last Optimus saw before the giant silver mech disappeared in an Autobot mass was his arms thrown up to block his face. 

Optimus had to pace to the other side of the room when the beating turned into something else. Something more vile than attacking a helpless mech. He couldn’t hear Ratchet anymore. His tanks churned and he purged in the wastebasket twice. Every time he thought they were finished, a couple would shuffle around the debilitated pile that used to be Megatron and they kept going. He was glad there was no audio. Or, glad wasn’t the right word. Neither was relieved. 

The only sliver of relief Optimus felt was when the Guardsmen finally retreated. Optimus stared hard at the screen and struggled to tell whether or not Megatron was alive. The guards made quick work of cleaning their mess, and he had to look away again. Even then, when all were gone, there were smears of energon and transfluid on the floor around Megatron. He still hadn’t moved, hadn’t since the last mech got off him. Optimus returned to the door, attacking with a new, deranged fever. He couldn’t do anything. That’s what Sentinel and the Council and hell, Primus, wanted him to believe. But he made up his mind: Fuck them all. Fuck their bigotry and fuck their cheap excuse of justice. 

Ratchet was saying something, and just as Optimus lunged for the door with renewed fervor, it opened and he tumbled into the hall. Huffing and raging, he slipped through his bewildered team and charged towards the Brig. Fuck it. He was done. Done with the lies and the tight-lipped smiles. If he couldn’t find justice for Megatron in the system, he would have to abandon the already broken system. As for penance for Megatron’s victims —well, if they had any morals they wouldn’t have condoned what Optimus just watched. 

He was vaguely aware of telling all that to Ratchet, Prowl, Bulkhead, and Bumblebee who were right on his heels. When they reached Megatron’s cell block, the three of them took out the guards before they could trigger any alarms or make much noise. 

Optimus forgot his own pain when Ratchet unlocked the cell and he rushed in. Megatron’s frame wheezed with every breath, and he was still crumpled on the floor, face buried in his arms and legs splayed behind him. Optimus almost purged again when he saw the bloody wounds, the broken armor, the finger-shaped dents and the paint transfers. 

He crouched by Megatron’s helm and whispered, “Can you hear me?”

Megatron groaned, an unholy, spark-wrenching sound, no matter who it was coming from. “Your turn?” he rasped as he struggled to lift his helm. Pure hatred burned his optics a fiercer red than Optimus had ever seen. 

“No,” Optimus choked. “Can you stand?”

Megatron stared. “What —mph— do you want, then, tiny Autobot?” He spat the words like coals or poison darts. 

“I want to help you.” To Bulkhead, he barked, “Get these chains off him.”

Bulkhead faltered. “Um, are you sure, Optim—”

“Now!”

Bulkhead crushed the bonds as if they were made of tinfoil. Ratchet and Prowl helped Optimus get Megatron off the ground and they all stood there, panting from the effort and trying to clear their heads.

Bumblebee, from where he was on lookout, finally whispered, “If we’re gonna do this, we gotta go now.” His optics were wild and frantic, and Optimus wished he could take a few precious seconds to comfort him, but he was right.

Bulkhead and Prowl took over dragging Megatron, and Ratchet helped Optimus back towards the medbay. Thankfully it wasn’t far, and it was so late they only passed one other mech, who was easy to take care of. The cameras, however, were a different story. No one knew how long they had until the alarms started blaring and the building went into emergency shut down. 

Optimus expected Ratchet to stop in the medbay, but instead he led the group on and through to the back of it, where an emergency escape pod was waiting. Optimus stopped then, staring at the pod and wondering what the hell was happening, even though he could very clearly see that Megatron was getting loaded into the pod, and he was expected to follow. 

Ratchet urged him a step closer. “How far are you willing to go for your idea of justice, Optimus?”

The others gathered around, watching him with expectant optics. Before the chance slipped through his fingers, he asked, “How did you know I wou—”

Bumblebee gladly interrupted. “We’ve been around you long enough to know you wouldn’t stand for what was happening to ole Megs in there.” He offered a cheesy grin and Optimus wished he could smile back. 

“You do not have to leave,” Prowl said, “but you can’t break a war criminal out of prison and not be expected to suffer the consequences.”

“Optimus,” Bulkhead added, “whatever you do, take care of yourself.”

It was too much, all too, too much, and his head was starting to spin and he didn’t know if he wanted to step into the pod or step off the building. But the alarms started blaring, goodbyes were rushed, and then he was crammed in the pod with a half-conscious Megatron and fleeing the planet he’d only just returned to. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story isn't ending quite how I planned, so some of the tags have changed. If you're here for smut, sorry to (probably) disappoint. For now, I'm removing the sticky tag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for dreamt sexual abuse/rape and past sexual abuse/rape

Not long after Optimus got the ship out of Cybertron’s atmosphere (he had to fly through Kaon and the Pits to lose the three guard ships sent after them), he passed out. There wasn’t enough room for both him and Megatron to sit comfortably, so when he lost consciousness and collapsed, his frame filled the only remaining space, the gap between Megatron’s legs. They’d been sitting awkwardly before, but at least Megatron could keep his legs spread so there was enough room for Optimus to squat at the controls without touching him. Now the Prime was dead weight and his helm and shoulders pressed against the inside of Megatron’s legs, his helm much too close to his interface panel for comfort. At least his attackers had the courtesy to let him keep the cover, Megatron thought. He clenched his jaw and fists and tried to move his leg, but his wounds never had the chance to heal and he could barely move his pede. So they stayed like that, and Megatron stared out the windshield of the pod, blind to the beauty of space, losing himself to memories. The good memories were few and scattered, so his mind fixated on dominance battles and to-the-death fights in the Pits, siphoning energon from healthier slaves, being bought for pleasure. His tanks roiled when he remembered those long-suppressed things, the forced show of submission, the dirty shanix, the stench of expensive polish following him all the way back to the pits. 

Subconsciously, he pressed a servo to the side of his helm and dug a knuckle into his temple, an old habit. The Prime stirred in his lap and he wondered, spitefully, if this little, self-righteous Autobot would ever buy a warrior class mech and make him beg. Optimus groaned and his helm thunked against Megatron’s thigh when he twitched. Megatron hated himself for being so cruel. He knew damn well Optimus Prime was nothing like his predecessors or his peers who revelled in power and control over the stronger. 

The spiders were closing in, giant mandibles reaching out, crushing his frame. Crushing him but not Elita, who stood on a rock ledge about fifty meters up, smiling. She smiled and her face twisted, morphed, into a ghastly mess of fangs and eyes and Optimus screamed. He screamed at Sentinel to run, but he was too quiet, smothered by a mass of arthropods not killing him but. . . He screamed when the beasts forced themselves into him, the pain so vivid, so tangible, and he cried for help, help he would never get, help he didn’t give, plasma and tears burning his optics, and somewhere, hidden from view, a stadium of viewers cheered and applauded. 

Megatron tried to rest, to close his optics and let his wounds take him, but every time the Prime in his lap twitched or cried out, he was snapped back to reality. He hated it. It, but not him. Not Optimus. The kid was trying his best to fight whatever was attacking him in his dreams: His fists were balls pressed against his own chassis, and he’d pulled his legs up too so that he was nothing but a cringing, shivering lump between Megatron’s thighs. Even though he’d watched this same thing play out countless times while in the storage unit, Megatron still wasn’t used to seeing it. He knew flashbacks, he knew nightmares, and he sure as fuck knew pain, but to see someone else battle all of that threw him back into the days when it was  _ all _ he saw. When he was lucky to see a smile. And yet, he doubted that Optimus Prime ever witnessed times like those, so why was he sympathetic to a pain he didn’t understand? He shouldn’t be, not as a warrior-class, not as a warlord. But was he really either any more?

Experimentally (and because he was too tired to keep holding his arm over his head), Megatron let his arm fall like a strap across Optimus’ side. He would laugh at the other’s size if they were in any other situation. But size didn’t seem to matter anymore. The Prime shifted and when he grabbed hold of Megatron’s servo and pulled it closer, he froze. 

He could feel the warmth radiating from Optimus’ spark, so powerful and defiant. Maybe it was devotion to Cybertron that made him glow so brightly, so warmly, like Megatron’s had at the beginning of the Revolution. Oh how it’d dimmed. 

Optimus was thankful that when he woke up, Megatron was knocked out, although he could do without the snoring and the arm slung over his chassis. He could only imagine the horror of waking up between an  _ awake  _ Megatron’s legs. Not that he was too cognizant himself. He fiddled with the controls of the pod and tried to focus on the readings on the screen. They were set for an uncharted organic planet so far out from any form of civilization that Optimus wasn’t sure which galaxy they were in. If they weren’t just floating in the afterlife. If there  _ was  _ an afterlife. He didn’t know anymore, whether he should place his faith in Primus or death or the void. 

Megatron grunted and shifted his good leg, the knee bumping against Optimus’ hip. He froze. What was he doing? Two broken mechs in an escape pod

“What. . .are you. . .looking at?” Hearing that voice right behind him wasn’t new, but convincing himself he wasn’t about to be murdered was nearly impossible. Optimus couldn’t name it, but Megatron’s voice was different, certainly quieter, and he spoke so slow, as if every word could be his last. Of course, with all the energon smeared on the floor of the pod, 

Optimus fixed his optics on the screen and tried to ignore the pings of his battle protocols and the thighs on either side of him. “Our destination.”

Megatron shifted behind him, trying to limit his groans and sharp breaths, until he was leant far enough forward that his chassis just scraped Optimus’ back. Optimus reminded himself that, as an Autobot, it was his duty to protect all life. It was a paradox he’d struggled with before, but Megatron was, without a doubt, a lifeform. A weak lifeform who could barely hold himself up, whose frame felt cold against Optimus’. 

“I do not recognize this sector,” Megatron said. His frame creaked and whined as if it was only yesterday that he’d taken a city over the head. “The planet is. . .”

“Organic,” Optimus finished. His servos tightened on the console. “Preliminary scans show no sign of life.” 

Megatron hummed and leaned back again. He allowed the silence to settle and Optimus was sure he’d lost consciousness again. But the damned mech spoke up just in time to spark Optimus’ nerves back to alert. 

Yet all he rasped was, “Why?” And Optimus pretended not to hear.


	7. Chapter 7

The pod touched down a full cycle later, and the landing was rough enough to wake both Optimus and Megatron. Megatron groaned and grit his dentae against the stabbing sensation crippling him from the waist down. He tried to focus his fritzing optics on Optimus’ servos hovering over the release for the pod door. 

“Here,” Megatron grunted. He couldn’t bear watching the Prime’s servo shake like that. Even if he could barely think straight, he could still slam his fist down on the console. The door hissed as it opened and a carbon filled atmosphere wafted around them. It was a nice switch from the stench of old wax and festering wounds. Beyond the open doorway, the planet was an endless expanse of bright colors. It was all clear blue sky and clusters of cotton-like flowers, pinks and yellows, and Megatron thought, only for a millisecond, that it was beautiful. 

Optimus carefully maneuvered around Megatron’s legs and slipped down to the planet. He landed with a muffled thud and a cloud of pollen puffed up around him. The breeze picked up the particles and carried them away like shattered crystal bits. The Prime watched with drooping optics before dipping his helm. 

“Earth. . . Cybertron, they’re so far away,” he muttered. Megatron did his best to look dubious but it faltered under Optimus’ focused gaze. “Can you walk?”

“And where will we go?” 

The only hint of cover was the silhouette of a mountain range in the distance, and there was absolutely no possibility that Optimus could drag him the whole way there, and he couldn’t even bend his left leg: Forget walking. 

Optimus glanced over to the mountains. He turned but couldn’t hide his disgust at the sight of them. “No caves,” he whispered. 

Megatron closed his optics and tried to ignore the wane of his spark. “No matter how far we run, they will find us. Believing otherwise is. . .” He couldn’t bring himself to say foolish. Not when Optimus stared at him with desperate, panic-fueled blue optics. They both knew it, why bother saying it. He turned his helm, as the words stuck to the roof of his mouth. 

Optimus muttered something about this being the end and squatted in the flowers. He ran his servo over their blossoms, not watching but staring into the distance. Remembering. Perhaps recalling the best moments of his life or sending prayers to a deaf god. Megatron could already hear the hum of ships in the distance but he chose to focus on the Prime. 

“I don’t like this planet,” Optimus muttered. He stood, returned to the ship, and carefully situated himself between Megatron’s legs. 

When he moved to seal the pod door, Megatron gently grabbed his wrist. “I would prefer fresh air,” he said. He attempted soothing, but it turned threatening, too gruff coming from his mouth. 

Optimus turned his servo over and left it hanging in the air until Megatron carefully lowered it so it was tucked against the Prime’s chassis. He was shaking. Megatron, mind hazed with pain, wrapped an arm around his small savior’s equally small waist. 

As quietly as he could manage, Megatron said, “I respect you, Optimus Prime.” It wasn’t what he’d intended to say, but it snapped Optimus out of his panic so he continued. “I have never expected a different end for myself, but I always imagined I would be alone. One Decepticon against the whole of Cybertron, a regal final stand.” 

Optimus snorted at that. “They were going to toss you into the smelter when you were unconscious. Is this any better?” He shuddered and took a deep breath. The fleet’s engines were getting louder, now a dull echo in the pod. “Why didn’t you run after the city fell?”

Megatron looked upon his small counterpart and couldn’t stop the ache in his chassis. “I don’t run.”

Optimus snuggled closer, apparently too tired and too close to death to be bothered with indecent physical contact. “You should have ran,” he murmured. 

“But then I would not be here. With you.”

Optimus rested his helm against his chassis, effectively hiding the Decepticon insignia. “We will die as equals.”

Megatron hummed approval. “All I ever wanted.”

The flowers outside were blasted with hot air from the fleet of Elite Guard ships and turned into blurred masses of pastel. Optimus closed his optics and tucked his helm beneath Megatron’s chin. Megatron held him tight, doing his best to shield him from the approaching troops with his arms. If this was to be the end. . . 

He ducked his helm and planted a kiss on Optimus’. “I shall see you in the Allspark, Optimus Prime.” He hesitated when a line of guns was raised and aimed into the pod. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. . . sorry for the rough ending, but thank you all for reading and giving feedback!


End file.
